


Table Manners

by KareliaSweet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Allusions to sexytimes, Blood, Dark(ish) Will, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Will and Hannibal's first time is facilitated by the boorish manners of their dinner guest.</p><p>Post S-3 Murder Husbands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Table Manners

“So, how long have you two been together?”

Professor Davies smiles benignly. Tonight’s dinner guest is an academic of some sort and Will immediately hates him.

“We’re not-” Will starts, before Hannibal smoothly cuts him off.

“Two years. Give or take some days.”

The professor casts a puzzled grin between them.

“We are partners,” Hannibal continues, “but we are not lovers.”

To Will’s dismay – but not surprise – Hannibal presses just a needle’s-width further.

“Not for lack of effort on my part.” He winks at Will, who exhales a sigh inwardly.

You son of a bitch, Will thinks loudly, glaring at his…. partner. Hannibal gazes back, smooth as glass, but Will can read his thoughts as though they were subtitled across the table setting. He is immensely enjoying this.

The professor observes this brief exchange and chuckles. He downs a more than hearty swallow of his wine.

“Well, this should be interesting.”

“Not really,” Will says, “he’s just-”

“No, please,” Hannibal gestures Will’s protests away with a polite wave of his hand, “How is this interesting? I would be delighted to hear your discourse on the matter.”

Professor Davies brightens as though a Christmas tree has been lit within him. “Well, it seems quite apparent – to me, at least - that your relationship is not entirely platonic. There is obviously a deep connection between the two of you. One might assume to call it love. Where then, does one draw the line as far as consummation is concerned?”

Will stews silently, more angered than embarrassed. This was not the place for this discussion, nor the person he wished to have it with.

Professor Davies quaffs another third of his glass of wine. “Tell me, are you familiar with Achillles and Patroclus?”

Hannibal arches a single eyebrow, smirks and says nothing.

In retrospect, Will should have known better when Hannibal informed him that their dinner guest had a PhD in psychosexual behaviour.

This was going to be a long and not particularly entertaining evening.

-X-

“Sometimes you just need to dive in at the deep end. No sense in doggie paddling is there?”

Overabundance of wine has bruised the professor’s cheeks with a mottled flush and his consonants are growing fluid.

“I know in boarding school I did my fair share of diving. Had a bit of fun!”

“That’s really not the case here,” Will begins, but does not know how to finish. He’s not entirely sure what the case is anymore. He just wants this man to shut up so he can yell at Hannibal in peace.

“Isn’t it? Have you ever even tried to… you know?” He gestures between the two of them, and although it is a simple swing of the fork, there is vulgarity laced in it. He is skating on thin ice now. Hannibal abhors vulgarity.

“You don’t have to answer that.” He says quietly to Will, and Will can see that Hannibal’s enjoyment has faded.

The Professors registers no such dip in the mood and presses on, woefully undeterred.

“I see.” He doesn’t. His eyes are glassy and his air of academia has evaporated. “Well if you haven’t tried it, how can you determine that you wouldn’t derive some pleasure from it?”

He drains the last dregs of his wine from his glass. Will has counted five amply full glasses so far. He would be on thin ice alone for the amount of Romanée-Conti he has consumed.

The professor places a friendly hand on Will’s shoulder as though they are co-conspirators in his buffoonery. He eyes Hannibal, winking as though he were about to bestow him a grand favour.

“Would it really hurt you to suck his cock just once?” He leans back, elbows Will jocularly. “You might find you like it.”

Will’s jaw drops. An appalled silence floods the landscape of the dining table. Hannibal’s mouth has drawn itself into a thin angry line. Will’s eyes meet his and one word passes between them unspoken.

Rude.

They do not tolerate rudeness in their house.

As one, they turn to Professor Davies, disdain openly written across both of their faces. The professor, all bluster now, attempts to correct his course, unaware that he has already crossed unfathomable waters.

“But of course,” he coughs noisily and for no reason, “I speak hypothetically.”

“No, you don’t.” Will’s voice is calm and even, and it turns the professor chalk white.

“Well… I mean to say…” he laughs nervously, “Gentlemen, I thought we were having an educated discussion here-”

“There is a difference between an educated discussion, and being simple and crass.” Hannibal’s eyes have the glint of hardened coal. “You insulted my partner. You insulted me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“And yet you did.”

Will and Hannibal regard each other, Will arches a brow. Hannibal nods.

In a fluid unit of motion, Hannibal stands, cradles the professor’s jaw in both hands and jerks his chin back, casting his eyes to the ceiling. He sputters frantic plosives but does not form words. Will takes his knife and slices the man's throat clean. Blood jettisons in a spray that arcs over them both. In unison they let go, and Professor Davies’ face falls heavy onto his plate, blood mingling with béchamel.

Will looks at Hannibal. The blood on his face, the lust in his eyes. For the first time, he sees. An unknown string long pulled taut within him suddenly snaps.

In a fury not fueled by rage, he shoves Hannibal backward, hard. Hannibal staggers and Will moves with him, catching him by the tie and yanking forward. There is a millimeter of breath between them, their eyes are now equal fire.

“Well?” Hannibal says.

Will kisses him.

And kisses him.

It is hard and frenzied, and their hands are slick with blood, tracing discordant patterns across each other shirts, arms, faces. Will is only half aware that there is still a dead body in the room when he begins to unbutton Hannibal’s trousers.

“Bedroom,” Hannibal rasps, panting.

“I don’t care about the-” he gestures in the direction his assumes the body will be, but his compass has lost its bearing.

“Now, Will. Bedroom.”

Will is about to acquiesce before he is seized with a new boldness.

“Say please.”

Hannibal stares transfixed, raw in his wanting.

“What?”

“You heard me. Say. Please.”

He sees the palpable need shudder through Hannibal and it sends a frisson of electricity through him.

Hannibal kneels before him, in abject supplication. His head is lowered, and he does not raise his eyes.

“Please.”

Will reaches down, takes him gently by the chin, lets their gaze meet.

“Again.”

He has never seen Hannibal look more reverent or undone.

“Please, Will.”

The soft prayer of his name untethers the last of Will’s moorings and he pulls roughly Hannibal up, hand still under his chin. Hannibal rises, a great lion entirely at his mercy. Will glides his hand back, caresses his jaw and kisses him once more, this time with years of tenderness unbottled and spilled between them.

“To bed,” Will says, and his great lion follows.

-X-

They lay content after, in awed afterglow. Hannibal’s arm is slung lazily about Will, Will’s cheek pressed to the wall of Hannibal’s heartbeat. The rhythm begins to sooth him to sleep. His mind drifts to the body of the professor in the dining room, now long cold. The body of the professor….with a PhD in psychosexual behavior….

Will bolts upright and smacks Hannibal broad in the chest.

“You did that on purpose!”

Hannibal has the decency not to deny it, and then the indecency to laugh. A full-throated, deeply happy laugh.

Will hits him again, aware that his anger is for show, but tries to inflate it to more than its size.

“You invited him ON PURPOSE!”

He lifts his arm for a third strike. Hannibal catches his wrist, placing a kiss to the pulse inside.

“And you do not regret it, Will.”

Silence, again. Will resigns, obstinately.

“No. No, I don’t.”

He returns his head to seek out the lullaby of Hannibal’s heart – a heart that beats in a language that only Will can speak - and is suddenly overcome by a strange melancholy. An ache for the loss of unsung consummations. He attempts to tally how many times they could have made love before now. The number excites and depresses him.

“Will?”

Hannibal, in tune with him as ever. Now amplified. Will shakes his head, raises it, looks into the sleepy eyes of his lover.

His lover.

He decides there is no time like the present to make up for lost opportunities and dips his mouth to kiss Hannibal anew. It delights him to hear the plaintive mews of response that issue from within his throat. This, Will thinks, is their greatest undoing. Perhaps that is why they had not ventured here before.

He has no more time for thoughts when Hannibal slides a hand around the curve of his neck, up, to grab a fistful of hair, gently tug.

They make up their numbers in impressive time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Hannigram, for drawing me back to the world of fanfic. This is my first work in years, and un-beta'd to boot. I do apologize for the lack of smut. One day I may return to it and fill in the blanks, so to speak.


End file.
